Tango Till They're Sore
by elwarre
Summary: My favorite characters as carnies (all human). Inspired by Tom Waits' dark cabaret album "Rain Dogs." Featuring Sam/Gabriel and Dean/Jo in a complete and utter AU. My overwhelming gratitude to my wonderful betas, safiyabat and alidaversa. (And yes, I am aware that sideshows are not really a feature of modern-day carnivals. But I can't resist a knife-throwing Sam.)
1. Jacks or Better

"Let me fall out the window with confetti in my hair; deal out jacks or better on a blanket by the stairs. I'll tell you all my secrets but I lie about my past, so send me off to bed forever more." - Tom Waits, _Tango Till They're Sore_

* * *

><p><span>Put-in-Bay, Ohio<span>

Sam wanted off this fucking island. There hadn't been a breeze for three days at least, and the lake air reeked of dead fish and diesel. His shoulders were sunburned, which he hadn't thought possible anymore, and the stabbing in his skull was most definitely from his forgotten sunglasses and not his late night drinking with Benny and Dean.

He tugged a cigarette from his pocket and flicked his lighter. His eyes closed with the inhale, thick tobacco smoke masking the summer lake smell. He was wanted down by the docks. Apparently the tall ship crew needed a hand, and Bobby had decided that hand was him. He didn't mind so much; the sailors were ok.

He stepped into the road absentmindedly, stopped short by an angry beep. The driver that had nearly flattened him flipped him the bird, and Sam flipped him one back. _Fucking golf carts. _There was little space for automobiles on the island of Put-in-Bay, and during festival seasons like this one, the buzzing carts swarmed in zombie-like hordes. They were obnoxious and everywhere.

Even the docks were ugly. The stench hung thick on the trash-littered boardwalk, and the boats layered out like fleas. Shirtless old men partied onboard with spoiled young frat boys and half-naked women, their beer flowing as freely as their painfully loud music. They flirted with ticket-girls and catcalled the sailors and generally played the part of the rich and entitled.

Everyone at A&C hated them.

Sam turned down a side-dock, squinting in the glare as he neared his destination. The _Pallada_. Whatever the hell that meant. He eyed the crew, his gaze finally resting on a middle-aged man with a wind-coarse ponytail. "You Mack?"

The man grunted.

"Sam. Bobby sent me."

The man jerked his head to indicate Sam should follow and maneuvered his way across deck. He disappeared through a low doorway and came back carrying a plastic bag and a water bottle. He shoved both into Sam's hands. "Stand at the end of the dock. Take tickets."

"You called me over here to fucking take tickets?" Sam's voice was level, but his eyes seethed.

The man said nothing.

So Sam didn't either. He stomped off the boat to the end of the dock and leaned against a post. _Fucking Bobby._ A line had formed already – brightly-clad tourists and bored looking kids waiting to trade their hard-earned cash for ninety minutes on an old boat. The sun burned hot, and he found himself wishing again for his sunglasses.

The next few hours of pushy, sweating fathers and lewd invitations from the boat-partiers did little to improve his mood. When he heard a golf cart's approaching whine, he turned toward the sound, half-hoping for a chance to clock someone's face. Instead, he saw Ruby.

He crossed his arms and offered her a lazy grin. "Rubes."

She climbed off the cart, scowling at him. "Up yours, asshole." She hated the nickname.

Sam planted a kiss on the top of her head. "What's Bobby got you doing today?"

Her scowl deepened. "Whatever odd jobs the boat crew throws our way. Same as you."

Sam gave a sympathetic nod. It made sense, really. The gig was a joint venture between a bunch of privately-owned tall ships and A&C Carnivals, and the limited space meant a bunch of carnies not working their usual sideshows. His hand itched for his throwing knife. "You seen Bal?"

"He took the ferry into town. Bobby said he's not working today. Something about family trouble."

Sam frowned. He'd been friends with Balthazar for ten years now, ever since the Winchesters had first joined the carnival crew, and the older man had never once spoken of family. "Hm."

Ruby tugged at his collar. "Let me see how it's healing."

He obediently pulled his tank-top down. There, on the left side of his chest, was a slightly puffy mass of black and green lines, twirling to form leaves and twigs and an ancient face. Ruby leaned close and gave it a long lick, much to the delight of the nearby drunks.

Sam gave her a half-hearted shove. "Cut it out, Rubes."

"Call me that again, and I'll bite you instead." She nestled against his side, resting her head on his arm. "It looks good. We can add more color next week."

"Thanks."

Ruby pulled away to face him. "Anyway, I'm here to give you a break. Bobby says to get some lunch and meet up with Dean and Benny on the green. They need help unloading and building the stage."

Sam wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled her hair. "Sounds good." He placed a kiss on her ear. "My place tonight?"

She snorted at him. "You are insatiable. And no. I'm hooking up with Charlie tonight. She's prettier than you." Sam flashed a bitch-face, and Ruby laughed. "Besides, handsome sailor boy over there looks like he'd be up for some action."

Sam followed her gaze to the bow of the _Pallada_, where a well-muscled, long-haired man stood staring at him. The man winked, and Sam returned a coy smile. That could work. He turned back to Ruby. "All right, Ruby. Have fun with Charlie. I'm gonna go find me some food."

He lit another smoke as he walked away, his thoughts turning back to Bal. For most of the carnies, family meant trouble. He wondered what it meant for Bal.

_Rain dripped off the edge of the vinyl awning. Sam huddled underneath, searching for warmth and failing to keep dry. Dean was off somewhere, talking to someone about them joining up. It was hardly ideal, two teenagers in a carnival, but it was their best shot, and they both knew it. Sam was fourteen, Dean barely an adult, and they needed some kind of family to keep safe. The carnies could provide that better than a street gang or, worse, a pimp. They needed this to work._

_A group of men clustered over a nearby fire, unmarked cans directly on the burning sticks. Sam's stomach ached with hunger, but he knew better than to ask. Asking showed weakness, and weakness meant black eyes and broken ribs. He wrapped his arms tighter around himself and looked away, struggling to ignore the smell of food._

_One of the men sauntered over. He looked to be in his mid-twenties and was gracefully tall, with sharp eyes peering over the dark stubble on his jaw. He held a can wrapped in dirty cloth and offered it to Sam. "Here, kid."_

_Sam turned away. "M'fine." Dean had warned him from a young age against random kindness, always insisting there was no such thing. There were nosy women pushing foster care, men trading protection for favors, offers of food to build indebtedness. But not kindness._

_The man chuckled. "Sure. You're fine. You're dirty and wet and look like you haven't seen food in weeks. But you're fine." He leaned on the wall next to Sam. "Thing is, I'm sick of this glop. Days and days of store-brand chili, and if I eat it one more time, my intestines will rebel. You eat this, I get to choose something else. So do me a favor, kid. Eat."_

_Sam considered running, but he really was hungry. He hadn't had anything since yesterday, and that was only some crackers Dean had swiped from a gas station. And this man wasn't asking for anything; he'd even offered Sam an out._

_He reached out gingerly and took the can, careful to keep the cloth between his skin and the hot metal. He dug in with two fingers and scooped the food to his mouth, ignoring the slight burn. It was delicious._

_When he'd scraped the last bits of food from the can, he realized the man was still watching. His cheeks flushed as he lowered his eyes. "Thanks."_

"_No problem kid." The man pushed away from the wall, eyeing Sam. "I'm Balthazar. Call me Bal."_

_Sam looked up, a little surprised. He hadn't expected introductions. "Sam."_

_Bal nodded and rejoined the men at the fire. Sam watched them awhile, warmed by their easy laughter and the food in his belly. He found a patch of dry ground by the wall and curled up on it, willing himself to stay awake until Dean returned. No need to make himself more vulnerable._

_He was asleep within seconds._

* * *

><p>Gabe sat at the bar, wondering where Bal had gotten off to. He nursed his beer and tried to ignore the pounding music and the tightly pressed bodies swaying together on the beer-slick floor. He liked to party as well as the next guy, but this was sweaty and sticky and gross. He missed his home with its burnished wood floors and wide hallways, he missed the smell of ocean salt and the breeze off the sea, he missed Kali, and his pompous-ass brother was nowhere to be found. This was the worst.<p>

He stomped off to the bathroom, wondering what the hell he'd been thinking. He'd needed to get away from pitying glances and his domineering father, away from Kali and the broken heart she'd left him with. It had seemed a good idea at the time to meet up with Bal and spend a few months traveling the country. But everything here smelled, the island, the beer, even the people, who seemed not to know about showers. He wasn't sure he could do this.

He pushed open the bathroom door and froze. A man knelt on the floor, his dark hair clinging to the sweat on his shoulders and his hands clutched tight on the hips of another man whom he was apparently blowing. And that man.

That man towered against the wall, eyes shut, mouth stretched in a wide, lazy grin. Thick cords of muscle rolled under the gleaming brown skin of his arms and shoulders. Shaggy hair curled over his wide forehead, leaving the long line of his throat bare. Gabe knew he was staring, but he couldn't help it. That broad chest, the narrow waist, the long, long legs hidden under torn jeans. He was perfect.

Gabe considered the face, curious about the closed eyes. Maybe the guy was cross-eyed. Everyone had some flaw.

Suddenly the eyes opened, and Gabe tried to look away. He really did. The guy was getting a blowjob for fuck's sake. But those eyes. Perfect and slanted and flecked with nameless color. Fox eyes.

Then those eyes met Gabe's, and the grin turned sardonic. He offered Gabe an impudent wink, and Gabe felt color rise in his cheeks. He turned and fled.

His heart was pounding jackrabbit-quick when he reached the bar, but of course the seats were all taken. _Damnit, Balthazar. Where the fuck did you go? _Something dark coiled, deep in his belly, and the room threatened to suffocate.

Gabe left the bar and found his brother outside, chatting up a group of men as he puffed on a joint. He tugged his brother's arm. "Come on, Bal. I'm tired. Let's go."

Bal shot him an annoyed frown, but handed the joint off to one of the men. He slipped his arm around Gabe's shoulders. "Fine, baby brother. I'll show you to your chambers. Right this way."

He led Gabe through a tumble of rusty trailers, stopping at one near the back. The door creaked as it opened, and they entered into a cramped living area that seemed to consist entirely of a couch and a microwave. Bal waved absently toward the end of the trailer, where dirty mattresses lined the floor and stacked on rickety bunks. "My bed's the bottom one on the left. Make yourself at home. I'll take the couch tonight, and we can harangue Bobby in the morning for something more permanent. Glad to have you here, little brother."

Gabe knew Bal well enough to appreciate the affection underlying the casual words. "Glad to be here. By which of course I mean I'm glad to be away from our loving father and my vixen ex-girlfriend." Bal winced at the mention of their father, and Gabe felt a familiar desire to comfort his older brother. "He misses you, you know. He'd never admit it. That would require the awkward removal of his big head from his ass. But he does."

Bal turned away. "I'm heading back out. Make yourself comfortable, and try not to bother the rest of the crew when they come crawling in." The door slammed behind him.

Gabe stared blankly at the door. He'd seen his brother only occasionally over the years, but they'd kept in touch. He knew their father's rejection remained something a sore spot for Bal.

He shook his head. A sore spot. Right. A bloody amputation, more like. So much had changed with his brother's exile. Gabe's future had shifted, secret hopes clamped down tight, his anchor and compass point stolen away long before he could do without. All that was left were these tendrils of remembered warmth leaking through the witty, jocular wall that had become his brother.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Gabe found himself put to work disassembling a stage that was apparently needed elsewhere. The rest of the crew had eyed him warily over breakfast, grunting out names during Bal's introduction but leaving him otherwise alone.<p>

Gabe squinted against the cloudless morning light as he struggled with his end of the heavy black platform, leaving most of the weight to the man gripping the other side. _Bobby? No, that's the boss. Benjy? Benny? Benny. _"And where does this little beauty belong, Benny-o?" The tension of his straining muscles was evident in his voice, and he inwardly cursed.

Benny squinted at him. "Fuck, son. Just put it down. I'll find someone else to help get it into the truck." He swore again as it slipped from Gabe's grasp and thudded heavily to the wet grass.

An amused voice drifted through the trees at his left. "Havin' trouble there, Benny?"

Gabe looked for the voice's owner. The man from the bar. _Fuck._

Benny grimaced. "Fuck you, Winchester. Get your lazy ass over here and help."

The man – _Winchester _– snuffed his cigarette out on his shoe and dropped the butt to the ground. He strolled over to Benny and glanced at Gabe curiously, giving no hint at all of recognition. _Thank the gods._

"Who's the rube?"

"This boy here's Gabe, I think. Bal's brother." He turned to Gabe. "Meet Sammy Winchester."

"Sam," he corrected tersely, ignoring Gabe's proffered hand.

"Sammy, help the boy on his end so we can get this motherfucker in the truck, would you? This'll take all day with just me and the kid, and I'd rather not piss Bobby off again."

Sam snorted and heaved up the end of the platform, nodding away Gabe's offer of help. "He still mad about the other day?"

Benny grunted. "How was I supposed to know the prick was a cop? Got way too handsy with Charlie."

They continued like that for about an hour, Gabe scuttling around gathering odds and ends while Benny and Sam did the bulky work. It was a little embarrassing, but he was anxious to do whatever he could to justify his stay with Bal, however unpleasant it might be. Going home was not in the cards.

Once they were finished, Benny leaned against the truck and offered Sam a joint. "Smoke?"

Sam waved him away, pulling a cigarette from his pocket instead. "You know I don't."

Benny grinned at him. "Gotta offer, Sammy boy."

The two men smoked in silence while Gabe anxiously shifted his weight. "What now?"

They looked annoyed at his interruption. Sam puffed harder on his cigarette while Benny answered. "Now we drive over to the park, and you stay out of our way while we do the heavy lifting."

Shame burned on Gabe's cheeks, but he nodded his assent. It was going to be a long summer.

* * *

><p>Gabe was exhausted and cranky when they finished construction of the stage. He hadn't seen Bal all day, and Sam and Benny had done nothing but prod him. He picked his way through the booths in search of his brother. Or lunch. Definitely lunch first.<p>

A long shadow blocked his path. He looked up into hungry, pinched eyes and shivered. _Lucien_. The wiry man was the only one who'd been anything approaching friendly to Gabe at breakfast, but it was a sweet-sick sort of friendliness that made his gut churn.

Lucien grinned at him, flashing his teeth. "Gabriel. How nice to see you."

Gabe nodded and edged away but was stopped by an iron grip on his arm. "No need to run, Gabriel. I'm just being friendly." A hard undercurrent rippled beneath the warmth of Lucien's tone, and Gabe felt his breath quicken.

Lucien's eyes twinkled with menace as he nudged Gabe against the wall. Gabe pushed on his chest and tried to twist away. "Fuck off, man."

Lucien just tightened his grip and brushed his other hand along Gabe's cheek. "You're a beautiful boy." His breath was hot in Gabe's ear.

Gabe panicked. Lucien was surprisingly strong, and his struggling was accomplishing nothing. "Get off. Get off get off get off."

There was a loud crack, and suddenly Lucien vanished. Gabe shook himself and glanced around, frantic to keep his attacker in sight. Another crack, and he followed the sound down to where Lucien lay stretched on the grass, nose bloodied.

Lucien growled. "The fuck do you want, Winchester? This sweet thing's hardly your type."

_Winchester? _Gabe saw Sam then, standing over Lucien, his eyes tight and unreadable.

"He told you to get off. So get off."

Lucien stood and studied Sam, fists clenched to his sides. Sam quirked an eyebrow. "You need another go around, Luce? Didn't end so well for you last time."

With an angry, grumbled slew of curses, Lucien was gone. Sam leaned over Gabe, who just then realized he'd sunk to the ground. Sam offered him a hand.

"You ok, kid?"

Gabe nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He took Sam's hand and pulled to his feet.

"Luce is a dick. You should stay away from him."

Gabe laughed weakly. "Yeah, I see that."

Sam stood for a moment, considering him. "You here for the week or the rest of the season?"

Gabe took a long breath. "Rest of the season, I think. Needed to get away from home for a little while."

Sam snorted. "Don't we all. Come on, I'll show you where they keep the food. Benny's probably cooking something up now."

He followed Sam through the crowd, carefully ignoring the confident set to Sam' shoulders, the easy sway of his hips. A cold lump of unease settled deep in his stomach as he forced his mind away, choosing instead to wonder just what "last time" meant.

* * *

><p>Sam tossed on his mattress. A stomach full of beer and another roll with the sailor should have put him out cold. But the night air was thick and loud with the sounds of the party that never really ended on the island, and trailer was too fucking hot. He closed his eyes and stared at the veins in his lids.<p>

He couldn't get Gabe out of his mind, and it pissed him off. The kid was all softness and wide eyes, nothing like the hardened muscle or gentle curves he normally favored. He was older than Sam by the looks of him, but he'd been useless at set-up and completely paralyzed by Luce. He laughed sourly to himself. _Kid's gonna get himself killed._

He pushed himself up from his bed, annoyed. No point in pining away on a lumpy mattress. A quick stumble through the cluster of trailers led him to Ruby's door. He knocked.

There was a heavy thud followed by muffled cursing before he caught sight of her tousled head. "Sam?"

"Hey, Ruby. Can I come in?"

"Sure, but I've got a headache and I'm pmsing and whatever else you need to keep those monster hands to yourself."

Sam laughed and held up the bottle he'd brought. "Got it. Just booze and some company and no funny business. Promise."

She wrinkled her nose but opened the door wider, and he followed her in. They settled on the faded couch, Ruby tucked close under Sam's arm. She hummed contentedly against his chest as they soaked in each other's warmth, listening to the sounds outside. They passed the bottle between them.

Sam felt her tremor as she sighed away the tension in her shoulders. "What's eatin' you, babe?"

The humming stopped. "Told you. Girl trouble."

He brushed the hair from her eyes with a snort. "Honey, I've been around long enough to know that's not true. Got you on a schedule." He winked, then yelped at the sharp pinch to his arm.

"You're an asshole," she said fondly.

He shot her a crooked grin. "I know."

She huddled closer to his chest. "Anyway, it is girl trouble. With Charlie."

That surprised Sam. Charlie had only been with A&C a couple of months, but she seemed nice enough. Bobby had picked her up to do advertising, scheduling, pretty much anything that required a computer, as no one else on the crew had much use for the thing. Like the rest of them, though, she filled multiple roles, including an acrobatic routine she worked with Ruby. But Ruby was tough; he couldn't imagine Charlie getting through her thick skin. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She pulled his arm tighter around her waist. "She wants to go steady."

Sam snorted. "Go steady? We in middle school now?"

She whacked him on the head. "Don't laugh at me."

"Aw, Ruby, I'm not. Sorry." He ran long fingers through her hair, inhaling the comforting scent of her shampoo. "Thought you liked her."

"Yeah," she sighed, "I do."

"And?"

"And that's a problem, ok?" She closed her eyes. "Made that mistake once; don't need to make it again."

Sam allowed the silence to grow, content to be quiet. This was familiar, the two of them, sharing each other's emptiness. Sometimes that took them to bed, desperate and clawing, mutual pleasure second to the need not to be alone. Other times, though, silence and half-told secrets were enough to ease the ache, and Sam would, as always, let Ruby decide.

"I used to be a good little girl, you know." Her voice was soft, hesitant, and Sam didn't laugh. "Big family, good grades, all that. Until I met someone."

She paused, timid at the edge of stinging memory. "She was beautiful. Alive. Like she belonged to some other world. And she was female. That was definitely a problem."

When Sam said nothing, she continued. "Or I think it would have been, anyway. Parents never found out. I just sort of drifted away, quit school, played around with acid and boomers. She used to paint these pictures, big brush strokes of color, and when we got high, they'd tell stories about the place I imagined she came from. It was like loving a meteor, the thrill of heat and too much speed. Then I found her in bed with someone else."

Sam trailed his fingers down to the side of her cheek and traced a slow, soothing pattern. She shuddered. "Never went home after that. Don't know what they think happened. I just...couldn't, you know?"

He sighed into her hair. "Yeah, I know."

They didn't break the silence again, but held each other close, clinging against the suffocation of the night until sleep assuaged them.


	2. Gun Street Girl

"Now the rain's like gravel on old tin roof, and the Burlinton Northern's pullin' out of the world. With a head full of bourbon and a dream in the straw, and a Gun Street Girl was the cause of it all... I'll never kiss a Gun Street Girl again." - Tom Waits, _Gun Street Girl_

* * *

><p><span>Some Years Ago<span>

Some things he knew; others, he didn't.

He knew, for example, how to smack a spoon along the rim of a baby-food jar that was screwed too tight for his stubby fingers. He knew how to spot quarters hidden in street grime, how to stuff rolled-up blankets under doorways to keep the wind out and their body heat in.

He didn't know where his mama had gone.

He knew baby Sammy needed him. Needed mushy carrots and watery milk, his bottom wiped clean and his toes tickled.

He didn't know where daddy was, either.

He knew that daddy was big like a tree, rough like sandpaper, sharp like the liquid that danced in his glass.

Sometimes he wondered if daddy was with mama. Why they weren't coming home.

He knew, when daddy did come home, smelling sweet and sharp and sad, to keep baby Sammy tucked in their room. He knew the songs to keep him quiet, the words to whisper. Where to poke to make him giggle just so.

He also knew not to ask about mama. That made daddy's rainclouds streak with lightning.

He didn't know why.

He didn't know some things, but he knew enough. He wasn't a stupid little boy like they thought. He knew gone and cold and needing food. And he knew love.

Love was baby Sammy's smile.

* * *

><p>There wasn't a party when Sammy turned one, but there was a gift.<p>

Daddy came home with a little stuffed dog, soft and floppy and brown. Sam took it from daddy but fussed until Dean came and got him.

There were no presents after that, from daddy at least.

But Dean always made sure Sam got something. When Sammy turned three, it was a big blue sucker Dean had slipped in his pocket at the corner deli. Dean was a little embarrassed; he was seven now, in school, and he saw the bright packages other kids got. But Sammy just looked at that sucker and gave Dean the shyest, dimpliest grin, as if he couldn't believe his luck. The wrapper crinkled, and ten minutes later, Sammy was sighing contentedly and smacking the last bits of flavor from his blue-stained mouth. The whole room was sticky.

When Sammy turned seven, Dean gave him a knife. The handle was chipped, and the blade was nicked, but Dean showed him what to do, how to dampen the stone, to glide the blade into it at just the right angle. Sammy was giddy. He was old enough now to begin his training, "drills" as daddy called it. He didn't care much for the work itself, but drills meant daddy's attention. Drills were all that pulled daddy away from the angry bottles he clutched in the night.

The stuffed dog vanished somewhere between their third and fourth move, but Sam never lost his knife. It wasn't long before he threw it as straight as Dean, better than Dean, even. He couldn't block punches like Dean could, and his short legs kept him from sprinting as quick. But he was good with his knife.

Sammy cared for that knife like Dean cared for him, protecting, sharpening, honing. The first time he used it to ward off a bully, he'd run to Dean and cried. He hadn't been sad for himself or the bully; he'd been sad for his knife. For wounding it, tarnishing it.

Dean knew how he felt. He didn't want Sammy to do the drills; he knew that daddy wasn't safe. Sometime after mama's murder, liquor and grief had broken him. Drills were how daddy kept the darkness at bay, kept himself from sinking into briny sorrow.

Dean didn't need the drills. Mama'd withdrawn from the world but not from his mind. She lingered there, warm and achingly bright, and there was no darkness chasing him. But daddy insisted the darkness was real, insisted they learn to fight and run, just in case. Dean hated just-in-case, but he loved his daddy, even if daddy had faded some, so he went along with the drills. But he wanted better for Sammy.

But Sammy loved that knife, and he blossomed under daddy's sparse words of praise, praise for throwing so straight, for hitting the target, first stationary, then moving, then moving faster. Then with his left hand, then two knives at once, then in a clichéd apple perched on Dean's head.

So Dean didn't protest when Sam did the drills. He even helped. But he watched, too, and waited, ready to step in, to keep Sam safe from daddy's darkness.

* * *

><p>Sam bit his lip as Dean stitched up the jagged gash on his arm, but he held silent. Even at ten Sam knew better than to cry. Somewhere along the line, Dean didn't know when, the drills had stopped keeping the liquor away.<p>

There wasn't enough for Dean to be sure. Sometimes daddy seemed the same as always, a little obsessed, a little too driven to arm his boys with self-defense. Other times, though, it seemed he resented them for surviving.

Random brutality, the newspapers had called it. A young mother, shot in her own home, infant son clutched tight in her arms, the four-year-old hiding in a closet. Did daddy blame them somehow?

Dean grabbed a bag of frozen corn and pressed it against Sammy's ribcage. Sam winced and looked up through his hair, his eyes wide with question. Dean saw his uncertainty and wanted to answer, to have reasons, excuses, tricks to ensure the future was better. But he couldn't. He didn't know. So he crawled into bed and hugged Sam close, willing them both to sleep.

* * *

><p>Their final move landed them in a two-bedroom shack in north Minneapolis. They missed school frequently now, having used up all the believable excuses for their bruises and welts.<p>

Sammy was eleven, and just beginning to grow out of his childish frame. He'd never been chubby – food was too scarce for that – but Dean liked to imagine that he could have been, could have had soft curls where his hair hung lank, baby fat in the hollow of his cheeks.

He was quicker, too, better able to dodge and return John's blows, though that only made their father more determined. Sam seemed to bear the brunt of John's wrath – maybe mama had died defending him?

Dean's whole world now was protecting Sam, calming John when he could, stepping in when he couldn't. They wandered the cold streets late as they dared, hoping their father would sleep. Sometimes it worked.

Those streets were home to many people, and familiar pathways for others. They didn't get bothered much; the hardness in their eyes warned off trouble. But there'd be the occasional drunk, or sober idiot, who missed the signs, who saw easy marks in the two young boys. Dean thanked god for the just-in-case then; no one touched his Sammy.

Between home and school one March afternoon, a strange, new hunger caught him. He stopped, surprised. He was only fifteen, but he knew hunger intimately, knew its stages and waves, how to hold it off with water and willpower. He even knew the special kind of hunger that came from not enough meat. But this was different.

Dean glanced around, curious. Sometimes these pangs could be triggered by smell, by a greasy billboard burger, by the row of fresh bread in a bakery window. He saw nothing like that, though, nothing that could have...

There.

A slip of a girl, blonde and clear-eyed, pushing a broom by the door of the Roadhouse Bar.

Dean hesitated. He knew the ways of a boy with a girl, though he'd never had time to explore that himself. But the hunger urged him on, and he needed to hear her voice to keep breathing.

He grunted his name and stuck out a hand, and she grasped it, firmly. Her hand was bird bones and soft as down, her name was Jo, and Dean's heart thudded loud.

They visited the Roadhouse more often after that, ducking inside to say hi. Dean thought he might love Jo, and her mother Ellen, too. Ellen was sharp-edged but kind, and somehow the liquor didn't sour her. He could tell by the slant of her mouth that she noticed the bruises, but she never mentioned them, and she always had extra soup or fries for the boys. Not enough to embarrass them, but enough that Dean knew what she saw.

When she spoke to Sam, her smoke-rough voice turned soft and low, and Sam smiled shyly but met her eyes. Dean began to leave Sam to his schoolwork inside while he ducked out the back alley with Jo. He came in his pants the first time he kissed her. Jo's lips were perfect, pouty and full, and when they pressed against Dean's he could see nothing else.

* * *

><p>Dean wasn't sure why, but the aging mechanic who paid John's wage must have been fond of their father, for when a stroke ripped his life away, he left the shop to John.<p>

Things changed after that. They kept up the drills but the choler was gone, erased in a night with the liquor-fueled rage. John seemed to have found a new sense of purpose, and more often than not, he left the bottle alone.

Dean was wary at first, but the new rhythm lulled him, and soon he was spending more time with Jo. Her quick wit entranced him, her dewy lips, the gentle swell of her small breasts and thighs, the soft-sweet scent of her breath his own brand of intoxication.

When he turned eighteen, he made a decision.

Sammy seemed happy now, though quiet and shy, and John set firm in his new-found indifference. Dean needed money, needed it fast, because he finally knew what he wanted.

He wanted to marry Jo.

He dreamed of it nightly, of the home they would build, the echoing laughter, the smell of hot food, the bedroom off to the side for Sam. His brother's place in his home was a given, for even though John was softer now, Sammy belonged with Dean.

So he dropped out of school one snow-dusted morning and packed his bags for North Dakota. Oil-rig work was hard, he knew, the work of lonely and life-weary men. But the money was good, more than good, and he needed to marry Jo.

Sam's eyes turned sad when Dean shared his plans, but he was fiercely determined that Dean should go. Dean hugged him tight, and neither one cried, and he pressed a quick kiss to Sam's cheek. Then he turned to his father, shook his hand, and left.

* * *

><p>It was May when the bus brought him home. Cautious flowers poked through the grass, and the air was tinged with warmth. His chest was broader now, his arms thick, and his skin had coarsened in the midwestern wind.<p>

He hummed to himself as he stepped off the bus. Just-in-case had served him well; the others had respected the name he'd earned. He had a thick wad of cash stuffed in his jeans, enough to buy Jo a ring. But he had to see Sammy first.

They'd had a few phone calls while he was away, and Sam's voice had been quiet and careful. Dean thought he knew why. Sammy harbored a guilty fear, a worry that Dean was held back by his brother, that caring for Sam had cost Dean too much. So he listened to Sam's assurances and gave him plenty back. And he knew that Sam was fine. John had pulled his head out of the bottle, and Sammy could fend for himself. But Dean was still anxious; Sammy was his, and he needed to see to be sure.

It was mid-afternoon, and the driveway was empty, Sam likely at school. That was ok. He'd have time to prepare, to wrap the long-bladed knife he'd bought for Sam, to cook some spaghetti the way Sammy liked.

He stepped through the doorway, awash in the feelings of home. Home was mixed for Dean. It was cold aching nights ignoring his bruises while he felt Sam's body, beside him in bed, wracked with noiseless shudders. It was burning pride when Sam threw his knives, one two three, quick and true to the target. It was the strange acceptance he'd felt last fall when John's eyes had cleared and his hands had stopped shaking.

Home was a lot of things, but now he had better. He had money and Jo and the plans to build a new life with Sam.

He stopped in the kitchen, uncertain why. Something had caught him, something was...

A thin, low keening reached from the bedroom, and Dean panicked and ran. His hand on the knob, the door shoved open, and there, there on the bed, lay Sammy, his Sammy, long naked limbs curled tight to his chest, his skin, pale and papery-thin, mottled with purple and green, his ribs jutting out beneath all the bruising, blood on the sheets below him.

Dean grabbed his shoulders but Sam jerked away, begging, pleading, no daddy no. Dean tasted bile and the world swam red, but he steeled himself, calmed himself, pulled Sammy close and whispered his name, promising safety and love. Sam didn't speak but his shivering slowed, and Dean remembered how, years ago, he'd threaded Sam's baby arms down through his sleeves, careful and firm, and did the same now. He lowered his brother back to the bed, all clumsily dressed, and stuffed Sammy's things in a bag. A change of clothes, a few balled-up socks, an armful of thick, warm sweaters. He held Sammy's face, soft in his hands, and kissed the places where tears would be if Sammy still knew how to cry. Then he shouldered the bags, grabbed Sam's hand, and led him out the door.


	3. Anywhere I Lay My Head

"My head is spinning round; my heart is in my shoes. I went and set the Thames on fire, now I must come back down. She's laughing in her sleeve at me, I can feel it in my bones, but anywhere, anywhere, I'm gonna lay my head, boys, I will call my home." - Tom Waits, _Anywhere I Lay My Head_

* * *

><p><span>Another Time, Another Place<span>

"They've got to be getting suspicious, you know."

Gabriel sipped at his coffee, pointedly ignoring his older brother.

"I should stop coming around. Daddy dearest won't like knowing that his youngest heir is fraternizing with the black sheep. What will you do when they finally piece it together?"

Gabe snorted. "Don't worry about me, Bal. I am a big boy now, you know." He lowered his mug to the table, watching the slow swirl of foam. "Kali is moving back to Chicago. I'm going with her."

Bal frowned. "Gabriel, sweetheart, don't do that."

"I'm done with all of them. Raphe is an asshat, and Michael will always be daddy's good little soldier." He drummed his fingers on the diner table. "You know, they all pretend you don't exist. Saul Portinari and his three little boys. Three."

"Gabriel..."

"Just shut it, Bal. They're sneering little meddlers, the whole lot of them, and I'm leaving. My heart belongs to Kali, and we're gallivanting off to the Windy City together."

Bal looked at him and sighed. "Darling, I want you to leave. And I'm sure Kali is a lovely girl. But you must admit it would be...healthier...for you to get away for awhile rather than skipping from one foreordained life to the next."

Gabe scowled. "And what exactly do you think I should do? When I leave the family nest, father will do his damnedest to get me on the blacklist for everyone in the business. And you know, big brother, that I have no other marketable skills."

"You could come stay with me."

"And do what? Hoist the mainsail?"

Bal squinted at him. "You know, darling, it's a carnival, not a boat."

"Hoist the big top, then. I can see it now: soft little me rubbing shoulders with the strong man, sleeping in a trash heap, and dropping tent poles on everyone's heads. Sounds perfect."

"My life is not quite as colorful as you imagine."

"Heaven help us, I hope not. But unfortunately, Bal, my meta-romance demands a beautiful woman, not sword-swallowing fire-jumpers. And I am leaving my godfather-esque tribe of a family with Kali."

Bal pushed his plate away and leaned back in the booth. "All right, Gabby, whatever you think you must do. Call me if the need arises. We're off to Ohio next week." He stood and grabbed his coat. "Smooches and all that. Don't be a stranger."

Gabe watched his brother leave the diner, wincing with the thud of the door.

_He crouched on the stairway, young and trembling, hiding from his family and their wrath. The heat of it scared him. The Portinaris bled anger; they breathed it in, lived it. Nothing else had shaped his childhood so profoundly. But the family anger was cold, unspoken. It was the black water of a frozen pond, still and suffocating and deadly. Not this virulent, fevered thing._

_In the entryway below, his oldest brother stood head to toe with their father, each trying to out-intimidate the other._

"_Fuck off, dad. Why the hell should it matter?"_

_Gabe winced to himself at his brother's boldness. He'd never dare address his father so brashly. Feigned submission had always been his tactic of choice._

_Saul narrowed his eyes. "You know better than that, Balthazar. The Portinari name matters. It means something, and it has for a very long time. If you want to dabble in drug-addled, disease-ridden faggotry, that's your own bloody choice. But you won't do it here." He circled his son, his face dark and threatening. "You are, of course, welcome to stay. You can take up the family mantle and do your duty as the first-born. We can find you a nice girl from a good family, secure your place in the business. Or you can walk out the door and into debauchery. Choose."_

_Gabe held his breath through the moment of silence before the door slammed. His ears were loud with the rush of blood and deaf to his own chant of denial. His father loomed over him, that familiar mask back in place._

"_Stop sniveling and go to bed, Gabriel. Balthazar made his choice. He abandoned his family, and I will not have my sons crying over him." Saul never did like it when they cried._

_Gabe stood and ran to his room, wishing he could defy his father, wishing to be more like Bal. He climbed into bed and forced himself still. He'd never felt so alone._

* * *

><p>Gabe pressed a kiss into Kali's neck, and she arched toward his touch. "Gabriel, sweetie, what are you doing here? You know I'm lunching this afternoon."<p>

Gabe hummed against her throat. "You can be late."

She pushed him away, chuckling. "Poor little boy, so needy." She kissed his cheek and shouldered her bag, heading for her office door. "You can come by later tonight. I'll be home. Alone."

The implication in her words turned his eyes dark, and she laughed again.

"You're welcome to dawdle here all you'd like. Just don't bother daddy."

He took a moment to admire the view from behind before sinking into her chair. Kali's father owned a successful construction company and had approved his daughter's match from the start. Apparently, Kali's life was an acceptable bargaining chip to ensure the good graces of Portinari Communications. Gabe sighed.

Not that Kali seemed to mind. It bothered him much more than her. But he couldn't help cringing when the only aspect of his life that mattered to her father was his position as Saul's son.

Gabriel propped his feet up on her desk, uncomfortable in the overly-plush chair. They had talked openly of marriage, where they would center their lives after. Even if he found other work, they'd still spend summers here on the east coast; it was their home, had been forever. The rest of the year would pass in Chicago, blissfully distant from both of their families.

He'd been looking at apartments. Kali prefered the ease of her fancy hotels but had reluctantly agreed to Gabe's insistent begging. He was eager to confront life by her side. He wanted to plan elaborate meals just to realize he'd forgotten a key ingredient, to face piles of dirty laundry that would only go away if he did something about it. No maids, no secretaries. Just them and beautiful mundanity.

He knew Kali didn't feel the same way. She enjoyed the life of the breezily unattached. Once they had a home, though, she would realize how precious it could be, the two of them against the world, fumbling through a shared life.

He smiled at the thought. He would see her tonight, would tell her that he'd be joining her in Chicago sooner than planned. And they'd be alone.

His smile grew. Tonight.

* * *

><p>Their limbs tangled together as he rode out his orgasm, panting her name. "Kali, god. Kali."<p>

She stroked his hair and breathed into his ear. "Mmmm, Gabriel, that's right. Just like that, darling." Her gentle touch brought him back from the edge and into a shivering warmth.

He rolled away and stretched out on the bed. "God, Kali," he repeated. "You're beautiful."

Kali nuzzled up to his chest, her fingers toying in the hair beneath his stomach. "There, sweetie, isn't that better?"

Gabe closed his eyes and drank her in, her warm breath, her smooth, clear skin, the way her hair tickled so sweet on his arms. "I think I love you, woman."

She patted his hand. "I know you do, darling. I love you, too." Her eyes were amused, and Gabriel thought he might drown in them.

They lay quiet for a moment, cocooned in the roar of the ocean. The future rose up before him, bright with the promise of love and safety and home. Of together, a new life separate and distinct from the complexities of the present. He looked at her, overwhelmed with gratitude for this woman who offered so much. "I want to come with you. To Chicago." His voice cracked when he spoke.

Her lips curved in a pleased smile. "Oh, sweetie, of course! It'll be fun to show you around. We can shop, and oh! There's this fabulous Belgian bakery near the hotel I stay at in town; their _croque monsieur_ are to die for."

He listened to her chatter. She didn't understand, didn't mean the same thing he did. That was ok. She was happy now, excited with her plans to play tour-guide. They'd have time to talk more later.

* * *

><p>Gabe closed his book and sighed. He'd camped out on the library balcony all morning to avoid his father, but it was a nice enough place to be. He looked out over the rushing Atlantic, scanning the horizon for sailboats. The sand on the beach below was white and fine and, generally, empty; the nearest neighbor was a quarter-mile away.<p>

It would be perfect if it were anyone else's home.

The Portinari Manor was haunted by memory, by a past and a present that tangled together without direction. Raphael's twisted games when they were young. His mother's footsteps, long silent. The slamming of the door behind Bal.

His father didn't even need to be home for his anger to creep into the bones of anyone present.

He glanced down at his watch and grimaced. He wasn't thrilled to be abandoning his hideout, but he had a lunch-date with Raphe and Michael – daddy's goons, as he'd christened them – and they'd expect him to be on time. He should go.

When he stepped into the library, it hit him.

"_Come out, come out, wherever you are."_

_Raphael's sing-song curled around his stomach and squeezed. He stifled a whimper and checked his hiding place. He should be okay behind the solid wall of the bookcase, right? Maybe Raphey would go away._

"_Oh, Gabriel darling, don't be afraid. You know I'll find you."_

_Hide-and-seek, hide-and-seek, all day long, those nails, sharp in his skin if he refused. No break for lunch, for him at least; sometimes his brother would pause for food while he shivered in a cupboard._

_Muffled steps on the carpeted floor. Raphey was close; he was sure to be found. He had to get away._

_He jerked and raced around the corner and there were the eyes, the taunts and twists of his nightmares, his father, laughing, cold and indifferent, the biting, piercing nails..._

Gabe shook his head. He wasn't six anymore.

The restaurant he entered was the polar opposite of the diner where he'd met Bal. Here, the air was hushed and expectant, the food tiny and perfect, and the linens crisp and blindingly white. Gabe hunched his shoulders. He was a finer things kind of guy, really, but this was just stifling.

As he approached the table, two young men rose in greeting. They were nearly identical: tall, dark-haired, perfectly smooth. The only real difference between the Portinari twins was the sinister twist of Raphael's lips where Michael's mouth was just stern.

"Raphael, Michael. Charmed, I'm sure." Gabe unceremoniously dropped to his seat. "What are we having today?"

His brothers sat, unsmiling, and considered him from across the table. Michael was the first to speak. "Father has concerns about your reluctance to take your place in the business."

Gabe felt a rising giggle but forced it down. His brothers would smell the panic in it. "Aw, Mikey, c'mon. I'm only twenty-six. Wild oats and all that."

Michael looked unamused, but he didn't comment on the nickname. "Raphael and I are twenty-eight, and we've been with the company for five years. You've used up all your excuses, little one."

Raphael smirked beside him. "Besides, Gabriel dear, aren't you just itching for the chance to join the fun? It's not all ball-and-chain, you know."

Gabriel stiffened at Raphael's tone but refused to rise to the bait.

Michael cleared his throat impatiently. "Father says to take what time you need, but give us a deadline. We can't keep your position open forever."

Gabriel's snort turned to a gasp when he realized what the sound had revealed. Raphael leaned over the table, peering into his eyes, his lips taunting and cruel. "What was that, baby brother?"

And just like that, something snapped in his chest, and he heard his traitorous voice far away, exposing, unmasking, unveiling. "Never. Never never never."

Michael's face went white, his shoulders stiff. Raphael laughed, bright and amused, and Gabriel felt as small as he ever had, prey to his brother's predator. He rose, shakily, and fled.

He went straight to Kali's house, knowing she would be gone, needing desperately to clear his head. He wanted to call Bal, but he knew what Bal would say, how his voice would linger again on _healthier_, and he couldn't pick up his phone. He hated them all at that moment, their sneers, their judgment, their self-righteous calculations about what should be his life.

He stopped at the porch and sat, waiting, willing his mind empty. Kali's house was close to his own, and the air here was heavy with salt, and it soothed him.

He must have fallen asleep. The next thing he knew was a testy nudge and the flash of angry brown eyes. He sputtered and shook his head.

"Get off the porch, Gabriel. You're hardly homeless, despite your idiocy. Stand up like a man."

There was a coldness in her voice that he didn't recognize, and he held his arms out beseechingly. "Kali..."

She cut him off. "I should have known better. I really should. I never imagined your slumming was more than a phase. You..." She poked his chest hard. "You have no intention of joining your father's company, do you?"

He shook his head, mute against her onslaught.

Kali's eyes were narrow . "I am such an idiot. I...You seemed so sweet, so eager to please, and I was really starting to like you. Damn it, Gabe, I was really starting to like you."

He reached for her again, but she slapped his hands away. There was no hint of affection left in her face. "We're through, Gabriel. Done. You…." she shook her head, struggling for words. "You aren't who I thought you were." The brief flash of sadness in her eyes vanished as quickly as it came, frigid determination settling in its place. "You. Get off my porch." And she was gone.

He winced at the slam of the door. His hands were trembling; he couldn't think. He scrabbled at his pocket, searching for his phone. He needed to call his brother.


	4. Shadows on the Pews

"Make sure they play my theme song. I guess daisies will have to do. Just get me to New Orleans and paint shadows on the pews. Turn the spit on that pig, kick the drum and let me down, put my clarinet beneath your bed till I get back in town." - Tom Waits, _Tango Till They're Sore_

* * *

><p><span>New Orleans, Louisiana<span>

Gabe scowled into his Sazerac. Sam had a flaw all right. Or three.

If he'd thought the rescue was the start of a friendship, he couldn't have been more wrong. Sam had quickly returned to his earlier dismissiveness, meeting Gabe's smiles with squinting disdain. Not that he said much. Or anything, really. Pretty much all Gabe had gotten from the other man were grunts and gestures toward whatever mindless work he wanted Gabe to do.

Not to mention the lung-fulls of second-hand smoke.

There had been one moment, though, where he thought things might change.

_A&C had set up camp in small-town Indiana, their next stop after Put-in-Bay. The last hours of their trip were nothing but soybeans and cornfields, knee-high but long past the fourth of July. Not a promising harvest._

_Rural America was new to Gabe, and he'd been fascinated at first by the rows of crops and the crumbling paint on the sides of old barns, but the scenery never changed, and the miles soon blurred together. The rest of the crew had spent the time sleeping or bickering in that perfunctory way that passed among them for friendly conversation. _

_Initial set-up took most of a day, apparently; the sun had long disappeared by the time Bobby called it quits. Gabe followed the crew into town, and it wasn't long before his brother fell into step beside him._

"_Does someone scout out liquor for you people, or do you find it by scent?" Gabe's tone was sharper than he intended, but he'd felt useless all day, and still his muscles ached._

_Bal didn't seem to notice. "There's always alcohol." As if that answered anything._

"_Why am I here, Bal? I am no fucking good at any of this."_

_Bal stopped and turned to face him, his head tilting sideways in confusion. He caught Gabe's arm. "You're getting better. Have some patience, Gabby. You'll be nicely calloused in a few short weeks. And anyway, there are plenty of rides and booths to work now that the sailor lads are through hogging all the space."_

_He didn't say "easy work" or "something even you can't mess up," but Gabe heard it anyway._

"_I should cut my losses and run. That I am just in the way has been made abundantly clear." Gabe knew he was whining, that he sounded like a petulant toddler, but dammit, he felt like a petulant toddler, and he'd whine if he wanted to._

_Ball gave him a small smile. "Ah, so that's what this is about." He resumed walking, and after a brief hesitation, Gabe followed. "That's just how they are, you know. Give them time. Nobody's welcome at first."_

_Gabe's mood hadn't improved much when they reached the bar, and he stomped in blindly and ordered a drink. It wasn't until the bartender returned with his whiskey that he realized he'd seated himself right next to Sam._

_Fuck fuck fuck._

_Gabe knocked the whiskey back in one gulp and motioned the bartender for a refill. He couldn't leave now, not without being obvious. And what was the worst Sam would do, anyway? Grunt at him some more?_

_But Sam was looking at him curiously. And then he spoke. "Rough day?"_

"_Nah." A lie. It had been a rough day, and he knew it, and he knew that Sam did, too. But it seemed to be the right lie, because Sam's grunt was a laugh this time. It was even...friendly?_

"_First day's always the toughest. Last day, too. In between's not so bad." _

_There was an easy camaraderie in Sam's words that startled Gabe, and he downed another shot. "How the hell do you people find bars so fast?" It came out as a grumble, but that seemed right, too._

_Sam's grin held a hint of indulgence. "Come here every summer, kid. Six, eight years now. Not much to do but work and drink."_

"_So I noticed."_

_Sam snorted at that._

_They had bantered for nearly an hour when Gabe, boldened by the liquor, pushed the conversation a bit further. "What brought you here, anyway?"_

_Something dark flashed in Sam's eyes, but his tone when he answered was light. "First question you learn not to ask, kid."_

_Gabe refused to be put off. And he had a hunch what should come next. "Pretty sure I'm older than you."_

_It seemed he guessed right, because Sam chuckled in response. "Probably so."_

_Someone nearby shouted for more beer, and two men in the corner looked close to blows, but Sam was staring at his drink, lost in thought. He held his silence so long that Gabe was surprised when he spoke. "My dad's an asshole. Things got bad at home, so my brother and I left. A&C was in town, and it was the best shot we had."_

"_Which one's your brother?" Really, no one had told him anything._

"_Dean. That one over there." Sam gestured toward the other end of the room where a green-eyed man was shooting pool with Benny._

"_Ah. Family." Gabe sipped at his glass, slower now. "Me, too."_

"_Sorry, kid."_

"_Gabe."_

_That earned him another snort. "Sorry, Gabe."_

_They drank quietly together for a long while before Gabe volunteered anything more. "I was in love, you know." His voice was bitter. "We were going to conquer the world together. I refused my spot in daddy's company for her, offending the entire family in the process, evidently. And as it turns out, my place in said family business was all that mattered to the little witch. That and daddy-dearest's money." He felt a strange sense of relief, of companionship, as he unburdened himself to Sam._

_That is, until he looked at him._

_Sam's face was shuttered tight, his knuckles white on his glass. He slammed back the rest of his whiskey and stood with a jerk. As he stalked out of the bar, he bumped shoulders with Bal, but offered no apology. The door banged shut behind him._

_Bal glanced at his brother, concerned, but Gabe was baffled. He'd been listening to the carny banter carefully, thought he'd caught the hang of it. But something he had said had pissed Sam off royally, and he wasn't about to chase after a pissed-off Sam. Better to wait until he'd cooled down a bit._

_He shrugged at his brother and finished his drink. Maybe they'd have a chance to talk tomorrow._

But they hadn't. Gabe had tried, several times, to engage Sam in discussion, but Sam's eyes remained hard, and he never responded.

So here he was, half a week later, on the first of a twelve-day stint in New Orleans, sipping what passed as a fancy cocktail in this hole-in-the-wall dive and watching Sam dance drunkenly across the floor.

Half-drunkenly, anyway. They'd been here for hours, and Gabe was observant. Sam clutched his beer but drank it slowly, and the liquid sloshed in the glass long before it had a reason to. He'd won a couple poker games, pushing right up to the line of suspicion without stepping a toe over it. Gabe had to admit he was good, if that was the sort of thing one wanted to be good at.

And now Sam had abandoned the cards in favor of a dark-haired woman, his hands on her waist and his mouth at her neck. They ground together with just the barest acknowledgment of the thrumming music.

Gabe wasn't watching, not really. Not Sam, anyway. The brunette Sam was fondling bore a passing resemblance to Kali. That was all.

It wasn't the arch of Sam's back that caught his gaze, or the line of Sam's throat when his eyes closed with the music. And certainly not the way the little red lights strung from the ceiling cast patterns on the sweat on Sam's shoulders, luminous shapes over gleaming muscle. Gabe blushed and looked away.

Apparently Bal noticed his discomfort, because he chose that moment to drift casually in Gabe's direction. "What's eating you, baby brother?" He reeked of sweat and stale tobacco.

"Fuck off, Bal."

Bal chortled. "Come now, Gabby. Be sweet. You haven't been around these lunkheads long enough to justify that kind of language." He swung his arm around Gabe's shoulders and winked one red, heavy-lidded eye. "Talk to me, love."

Gabe pushed him off. "You're high. Go away."

Bal's lips drew into an aggrieved pout, and he lurched at Gabe's shove, unsteady on his feet. "Darling, don't be like that."

"Just go away, Bal." Gabe wiped a hand across his forehead and sighed. "We'll talk later, ok?"

Bal made a face but complied, his hips swinging jauntily as he sought a partner. Gabe found himself grateful for the weed; Bal would never have surrendered so easily without it.

Gabe turned away from the dance floor and its dangerously attractive occupants, forcing his mind instead to compile a half-hearted litany of Sam's faults. Sam was mercurial, cagey. He was more than a little rough around the edges, if his skill at hustling poker was any indication. They way he'd feigned drunkenness, with his eyes too bright and his laugh just a little too loud, too wild and free of inhibition, hinting of invitation….

Gabe knuckled the side of his jaw and swallowed his drink. Maybe it would be better to think of Kali, no matter how much it hurt.

So he did. He imagined the dark silk of her hair, her long, skillful fingers, the life they'd planned to build together.

No. The life he'd planned, because they had never been together, not for Kali, at least. That should do it. That should keep his thoughts out of dangerous territory. But the pain that came with the memory was muted, and the old longing was gone.

He tried for awhile to think of nothing, of a dull, clean emptiness, but that just had him brooding into his drink. He had finally decided to call it quits when someone tapped his shoulder.

"For Christ's sake, Bal, go away!"

The sharp laugh echoing behind him was definitely not Bal's. Gabe whirled around, spilling his drink on the bar, and caught sight of green eyes.

_Sam's brother. Dean. Fuck._

The green eyes squinted. "What did you do to my brother?"

Gabe blinked at him, confused. "I'm sorry?"

"What did you do to Sam?" Dean's arms were crossed now, his impatience clear.

Gabe shook his head. Somehow, wires had gotten crossed. He stuck out his hand. "Hi, I'm Gabe. Bal's brother. Nice to meet you."

Dean swatted his hand away and huffed. "I know who you are. What I don't know is what you did to Sam. He's been good, happy even. Now he's not. I know it was you, that bar in Indiana. Whatever you said to him, tell me now, because ever since then he's been closed the fuck off. Won't even talk to me." He shoved hard at Gabe's chest. "What the fuck did you do to him?"

Gabe was bewildered. What had he done to Sam? Tried to be friendly, mostly. Sam was the one who shot him down, who….

Someone was tugging on Dean's arm. Gabe couldn't remember her name. "Dean, hey. C'mon."

Dean shrugged her off. "Back off, Ruby."

_Ruby, that's right_.

She grabbed him more firmly. "Dean. Listen to me. Sam's plastered, and I don't know what's going on exactly, but…."

There was a crash of someone's fist, and he noticed the shouting then. The dance floor had cleared, and Sam and Benny were circling it, taking angry shots at each other. The crowd surrounding them was eager for the fight, and off to the side stood the woman Sam had danced with earlier, her eyes hungry and calculating. Something about those eyes sent a shiver down Gabe's spine.

Dean pushed through the crowd and yanked Benny back. "Hey! Benny. Cool it."

Benny pulled himself free and snarled. "Not your fight, Winchester."

"Not yours either, dude. Sam'll kick your ass."

A loud crack, and Benny's nose shot blood. Sam was grinning madly. Dean shoved past Benny and grabbed Sam's shoulders, pushing him back through the skittering onlookers and hard into the wall.

"What the hell, Sam?"

Sam just kept grinning. It was a cheshire-cat smirk, taunting and white against the livid bruise blossoming on his cheek. His chest was heaving, and panic lurked in the corners of his eyes, but he looked remarkably calm. Unnaturally calm. like the hush of the woods where a predator stalks.

Gabe stared openly as Dean cupped his hands around Sam's face, muttering inaudibly, then pressed both palms to Sam's chest. Whatever Dean was saying, it appeared to work: Sam's breathing slowed when he met Dean's eyes, and the grin faded with the hunch of his shoulders. He offered no resistance when Dean led him out the door.

Gabe almost added "violent" to the list of Sam's flaws, but something in the slump of those shoulders stopped him.

* * *

><p>"You gonna tell me what that was about?" The question was quiet but demanding, and Sam winced against the ice pack his brother held to his cheek.<p>

"He pissed me off."

Dean sighed at him. "So you punched him? Good, Sam, that's good. Exactly what we want, you knocking Benny around. Not like he's a friend or anything."

Sam closed his eyes, concentrating on the coolness against his skin. The remaining tension drained from his shoulders, and he looked up at Dean through his hair. "He hit me first."

God, he sounded like a child.

A wistful understanding dawned on Dean's face, and he sat next to Sam and pulled him close. "Oh, Sammy."

Sam resisted at first, but Dean was determined, and he smelled of leather and home, and Sam couldn't help but bury his face in the steadfast warmth of his brother's chest. Dean began to stroke his hair, and Sam closed his eyes and breathed.

"Sammy."

The spell of shared heartbeats held them in silence until Sam was warm and compliant. He nuzzled Dean's chest, glad for the comfort. He needed this, sometimes, the loosening of his muscles, the crumbling of the walls that protected and confined. Just-in-case had been hammered into their bones, and it was only with Dean he could escape it.

He felt Dean's arms tighten slightly around him and knew he was about to speak.

"Tell me what happened, Sammy."

"Don't really know, Dean." His voice was muffled against his brother. "Took his money at poker, but he didn't seem too pissed about that. Then I started dancing with that girl, and he tried to cut in, and I told him to shove off. I must have been an ass about it because that's when he clocked me."

"Yeah, Sam, you probably were." But he kept stroking Sam's hair. "I'll talk to Benny about it tomorrow, ok? He's not dad, you know."

"Yeah, Dean. I know."

Sam was almost asleep when Dean spoke again. "What's been going on with you, Sammy? In general, I mean."

"Mmmmm," Sam hummed. "Sleeping, Dean."

"Hey." Dean smacked his head. "Sit up, Sam. This is important."

Sam begrudgingly moved to the other end of the couch and folded his arms. "What."

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam's scowl. "Quit pouting, Sammy. Something's been bothering you, and I wanna know what it is."

Sam chewed at his lip and considered not answering, but he knew Dean wouldn't give it up. Not when he was like this. Might as well get it over with. "Don't like Gabe."

Dean snorted. "You don't like anybody, Sammy."

"I like people just fine." He stuck out his jaw, annoyed.

"So what's wrong with Gabe, then? You get along with Bal ok, and that's one weird-ass dude."

"Bal's weird, and he's real, and he's been a good friend. Gabe's a spoiled rich kid throwing a tantrum."

"So?" Dean seemed genuinely confused.

"So I don't like him."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I got that, Sam. What I wanna know is why it bothers you so much?"

That was a good question, and one Sam didn't know how to answer. It shouldn't bother him; he'd learned early how to write people off. But it did.

Sam shrugged, and Dean's face lit with a knowing smile. "You like him, don't you."

"Just said I didn't."

Dean's smile grew, and he poked at Sam's ribs. "You do. You like him, and it's messing with your head."

Sam grumbled and stood to his feet. "You're an idiot. I'm going to bed now." But his cheeks were flushed red, and he knew Dean could see, and laughter followed his steps.

"Night, Sammy."

"Shove it."

* * *

><p>The next morning was busy with preparation. Quick travel time had given them an extra day before opening, and the crew was anxious to make use of it. That had surprised Gabe, a little; they'd all seemed more than content to skate by on weed and booze. And he couldn't imagine they were anything but hungover. Ever.<p>

When he'd finished with Bobby's deliveries, he took some time poking through the various booths and stalls dotting the green. Some sported plastic signs advertising fried food; others were bright with cheap prizes.

There were several larger tents throughout that Bal had said housed the sideshows. He knew his brother was in one of them, somewhere, practicing the fortune-teller shtick he so loved. Gabe laughed at the image: Bal, swaddled in orange and blue satin, his hands stroking a glazed crystal ball while he crooned in that knowing voice of his.

Gabe wondered what the other crew members did. There hadn't been room at the previous jobs for the bulky tents, and Gabe hadn't thought to ask. He knew from what Bal said that only certain of them worked the sideshows; it was considered a cushy gig.

He wandered up to one of the tents and poked his head through the coarse fabric. A blade whizzed past his face.

Someone shouted. "Fucking hell! Goddamned idiots should use the door."

Of course. It was Sam. _Delightful._

Gabe struck the most intimidating pose he could manage and glared at him. "Goddamned idiots shouldn't throw knives."

Someone snickered, and Gabe turned to see Dean stretched out on the ground behind Sam.

_Great. Two Winchesters._

Gabe looked back at Sam and caught a glimpse of embarrassment before the eyes curtained over. He chose to ignore it. "Why are you tossing knives around, anyway?"

Sam squinted at him and huffed. "It's what I do."

Gabe's eyebrows rose. "You throw knives?"

Sam just scowled.

Gabe moved to the back of the tent and sat next to Dean, who was flushed red and shaking with choked back laughter. "Show me."

Sam looked like he might refuse, but the mirth in Dean's eyes seemed to convince him otherwise. The lines in his forehead shifted from anger to concentration as he squatted and sorted through the knives on the ground, arranging them in various sheaths on his belt and choosing two for his hands. Then he stood and nodded to Dean.

Gabe observed the stage curiously. There was a wheel tucked on one end and a traditional bulls-eye target on the other. By a stool in the middle stood a box of objects that were apparently meant to be tossed in the air, and Dean rummaged around inside before pulling out a shiny green apple. He plunked himself down on the stool and balanced the apple carefully on his head, meeting Gabe's stare with a smirk.

_He can't be serious_.

Gabe blinked at the sudden flurry of silver and the thudding of blades on the wall. Another flash, and the apple split in two.

Dean wrinkled his nose, swiping at the juice that dripped onto his forehead. When he rose from the chair, the drywall behind him bore a perfect knife-handle outline of his torso. Bits of apple flesh littered the floor.

Gabe's jaw dropped.

Both Winchesters were laughing now, and Sam looked positively smug. It was perhaps the most pleasant emotion Gabe had seen on his face yet, so he met it with a grin.

In the back of Gabe's head, _good with knives_ was tacked onto the list of traits he'd forgotten were meant to be flaws.


	5. Rain Dogs

"Oh, how we danced and we swallowed the night, for it was all ripe for dreamin'. Oh, how we danced away all of the lights - we've always been out of our minds. The rum pours strong and thin; beat out the dustman with the Rain Dogs. Aboard a shipwreck train, give my umbrella to the Rain Dogs, for I am a Rain Dog, too." - Tom Waits, _Rain Dogs_

* * *

><p><span>Some Years Ago<span>

_When he'd scraped the last bits of food from the can, he realized the man was still watching. His cheeks flushed as he lowered his eyes. "Thanks."_

"_No problem kid." The man pushed away from the wall, eyeing Sam. "I'm Balthazar. Call me Bal."_

_Sam looked up, a little surprised. He hadn't expected introductions. "Sam."_

_Bal nodded and rejoined the men at the fire. Sam watched them awhile, warmed by their easy laughter and the food in his belly. He found a patch of dry ground by the wall and curled up on it, willing himself to stay awake until Dean returned. No need to make himself more vulnerable._

_He was asleep within seconds._

* * *

><p>A hand on his shoulder jerked Sam from sleep. He flinched away, frantic, lifting his arms to protect his face.<p>

"Sam. Sammy. It's me." Dean's breath hung misty in the chilled air, his hand heavy on Sam's thin jacket. Sam relaxed into the touch. "Come on," Dean soothed. "We gotta eat something."

Sam stretched his lungs and opened his eyes, squinting in the evening's half-light. He looked up at Dean with a quick tilt of his head.

Dean smiled down at him. "Yeah. We got the job."

Sam scrunched his nose.

"You don't gotta worry about that, baby brother. I'm the one working here. You're just tagging along and helping out when you can." He saw Sam's frown and laughed. "Quit pouting, Sammy. I'm sure there'll be plenty for you to do. Now c'mon. Food."

Dean led him to the dwindling fire, where only a few men lingered. The tall one - _Bal_ - was slouched on an upturned bucket, nursing the stub of a cigarette. He looked them over. "Bobby give you the job?"

Dean grunted a yes.

"Then eat." Bal handed Dean a now-cool can and glanced at Sam. "You want another one, kid? It's soup this time. I think."

Dean tensed. "Sammy?" His gaze shot to Sam, eyes edged with the beginnings of panic.

Sam tugged on his arm, shaking his head nervously. His voice came out a whisper. "It's ok, Dean. 'S ok. He didn't do anything, just gave me food. I didn't ask, I swear, I didn't…."

"Hey, Sammy, shhh. I believe you." He ruffled Sam's hair and pulled him close, and Sam settled into his heartbeat. Bal's eyebrows wrinkled curiously, and Dean met his scrutiny with a cool glare.

Moving Sam aside, Dean considered Bal silently, his eyes narrowed to slits and his teeth worrying at the inside of his lip. He took a deep breath and threw his shoulders back before he spoke. "You don't talk to him; you don't touch him. Nobody fucking touches him. Got it?"

Bal started at the disparity between the obvious threat and the carefully quiet tone in which it was uttered. "Jesus, mama bear, I gave him chili, not cocaine."

Dean shifted his stance, the warning clear.

"Fine, whatever." Bal shrugged. "Eat if you want." He stalked away.

Dean plucked two cans from the smoldering ash and passed one to Sam. He pressed a hand to Sam's cheek. "Listen to me, Sammy. You gotta be careful. We can't trust any of these people yet. You know that. For now, just stick with me, ok? And only take food I give you."

Sam mutely nodded his agreement, his cheeks flushed a painful red. He knew Dean was right. They'd let their guard down once - it was a mistake they wouldn't make again.

His hand felt numb on the cool tin. He blinked at it, wondering why the soup was trembling, but something was wrong with his eyes. The corners of the world went grey but he didn't notice because the soup was dancing and that was weird, and the greyness crept in and if he didn't figure it out soon it would be too dark and it slipped from his grasp and...

_Pain blossomed out from his jaw. He staggered back. "Dad?"_

_Another blow to his cheek. "Dad, what..."_

"_Fists up, son. No time for rest in a real fight."_

_They'd been sparring for over an hour, and he ached. John, though, seemed to have kicked into overdrive after the sixty-minute mark, the jabs flying at twice the speed they had been. Sam was fast; he knew he was fast, but he was still just a kid. How was he supposed to keep up?_

_He hated his father at moments like this. Almost. Dad meant well, Sam knew. He wanted to prepare his sons to defend themselves in a hostile world. All well and good. But sometimes it seemed a little too much._

_Sam blocked the next punch and dodged a kick. This was getting out of hand. He needed his brother. He would know what to do. Where was Dean?_

_John's fist met his gut, and he doubled over. Three more to his kidneys, one after the other. He dropped to the ground._

_Something was wrong._

_A rough hand on his neck, hot breath in his ear. "Get up. You'd be dead ten times over if this was real."_

_The air he sucked in was sweet with liquor. _

_John yanked him to his feet and stepped back. Sam stumbled at the lack of support, grabbing mindlessly for his father's arm. _

"_You wanna get yourself killed? That it? You….."_

_Sam feinted and landed a shot to John's ribs, but something caught his knees, and his head slammed to the floor._

"_Get up!" John was screaming now, his eyes wild, and Sam pulled up along the wall. His breath caught, rebellious, in his lungs; his head swam. Drills were one thing, but this was something new, something sinister, and it frightened him._

_That's when he saw it, the glint of silver in John's hand._

_His mind reeled. John hadn't said, hadn't warned him. They never used knives without planning it first, but the blade was there, John edging forward._

_Sam drew out his knife, but John lunged and twisted, and the blade sliced deep at his arm. Sam's knife dangled, useless, his fingers gone numb as his brain. This was his father, and the rules had changed._

_Sam dropped the knife and pressed his palm to the dripping blood._

_The door opened, and there was Dean, red-cheeked from the Idaho wind. His lips were pursed in an off-key whistle, and they froze, plump and accusingly cheerful as he absorbed the scene. He took a tentative step forward. "Dad?"_

_John eyed his older son while Sam slumped against the wall, lightheaded. Confusion battled instinct on Dean's face, and John must have seen it, must have known where that instinct would lead, because he shrugged and pressed his lips tight. The knife disappeared, and he staggered off to his bedroom, an unintelligible mutter on his tongue._

_Dean's hands were warm on Sam's shoulders. "Hey Sammy, you ok? What happened?"_

_Sam wasn't sure. He tried to tell Dean about the new rules, but Dean's eyes were fading, and the air felt too hot, but that wasn't right, he was cold, so cold, his bones creaking in the sweltering room and bruised by Dean's ever-warm hands..._

"Sammy? You back with us?"

Sam wiped the greyness out of his eyes. His tongue felt thick, and somehow he was propped back up against the wall. He blinked at his brother. "Dean?"

The lines between Dean's eyebrows faded, and he sighed. "Yeah, Sammy, I'm here." His nails scratched comfort into Sam's scalp, loosening the memory's hold. "You're ok. Sit tight and eat your soup." He nudged the can against Sam's hand until his fingers closed weakly around it, then straightened up with a pop in his spine and retrieved his dinner, joining Sam under the overhang.

"He all right?" One of the men by the fire, solid with a curved-down mouth, was eyeing them.

Dean didn't look up, but he shuffled a little to block Sam from view. "He's fine."

The man considered this. "If you say so. I'm Benny. You all new?"

Sam scooted up against Dean's back, more tired now than hungry. Dean pressed into him reassuringly. "Yup. I'm Dean."

"Well, Dean, you mind if I join you under there?"

Dean hesitated, but Sam nudged him, and he reluctantly gestured toward the empty space beside them. Benny sat gracefully, all smooth muscle and tanned skin. He rested his hands on bent knees. "That happen a lot?"

Dean shrugged, but his shoulders went tight. A strange emotion swam in Benny's eyes that Sam couldn't name, but it made him think of Dean. "How old are you, son?"

Sam felt the muscles tense in Dean's back at the pet name, and he nuzzled closer, wary. Dean's voice was measured when he spoke. "Twenty-two."

Benny snorted. "Like hell. But whatever." His gaze turned toward Sam. "That your kid brother?"

Dean wedged himself further between them.

"He don't talk much, does he. Guess you don't either." Benny gave them a small smile. "Son, you got the look of a boy grown up too fast. Ain't no easy life'll do that to you. But you two'll be all right here. We're good people. S'pose you gotta figure that out on your own, though." He stood, eyes trained on the horizon. "I'll let you eat in peace. You come find me if you need anything."

They watched him walk away.

Dean pulled Sam close and nuzzled his hair. "Gonna be ok, Sammy. Not gonna let anybody touch you." Sam closed his eyes, content to feel Dean, to smell him, sweat and salt and _Dean_, to know it was true, that Dean was here, and wherever Dean was, was home.

* * *

><p>Sam clung to Dean those first few weeks, his eyes wide, his mouth clamped shut. Dean would pry Sam's fingers from his arm, hands gentle as they'd ever been, and sit him down a few feet away from wherever he had to work. Every morning, and again after lunch, until evening fell and Sam could burrow his way into safety once more.<p>

The carnies kept their distance, and Sam observed them warily. Their calloused hands and wind-rough skin put him on edge, and the beer-sour evenings left him trembling. But their soft eyes clashed with their sandpaper words, and soon Sam could follow without all the clinging, an inch behind, and then a few more, and then, sometimes, his courage would swell and he'd dart away for a minute or two, if something caught his eye.

Summer lingered lazy and green as they skipped from town to town. Dean watched with pride as Sam's cheeks filled out, his hair long and wild on sun-browned skin. By July Sam had begun to help out some, nervous still and reluctant to speak, but tinged with curious confidence. Dean kept busy with small-time stuff - working the dog house, building tips. Turned out he had a way with the crowds, and they clamored to give him their money.

The sideshows enthralled Sam, and he whiled away his every free moment skulking around the big tents. One in particular fascinated him.

"Think someone has a crush," Dean said to Bal, laughing, when he noticed Sam lurking nearby.

Dean was wrong, but Sam didn't mind. He'd never met anyone like Bal, the man who'd fed him, who moved with such grace and self-assurance, who swathed himself in peacock silk and spun fanciful yarns while Sam giggled in the shadows.

The marks loved him, too, swallowing his stories as if they were Bible. He promised passion, warned against imminent danger, turned body language into psychic insight. And when he was done, when the lot lice were gone, he'd drink and smoke and laugh, and he spoke to Sam like Sam mattered.

The August they spent in Lebanon, Missouri, someone died.

The southern heat was thick and choking, a near-physical force that squeezed air from their lungs and sweat from their skin, that sharpened their moods and tongues. Dean knocked a few heads in a bar fight provoked by his pool-winnings, and he growled at Sam's attempt to pull him back. Bal's stories grew wilder, less believable, and Benny plain refused to talk.

One night, when the tents had closed up, a car-crash killed the wife of a man who'd spent too much money on Bal's predictions. The carnies didn't know this.

When Sam followed Bal to lunch the next day, a startled yelp stopped him at a corner. He peered around the prize booth to see Bal, back pressed tight against a red-faced man, a thin-bladed knife at his throat. Sam froze.

The others noticed the shouting soon and gathered around, helpless. When Benny stepped toward the man, palms raised, a drop of fresh blood rolled the length of Bal's neck, pooling in the hollow below. No one moved after that.

Except for Sam. They'd been here before, him and Dean on the threat-ripe streets, and he knew what to do. He backpedaled, crept a wide circle around the carnival structures, unbothered and unobserved. A scrap of a boy never draws much notice, and once again, Sam was grateful.

When he reached the far side, facing Bal, he worked his way closer, hugging tents and ducking in crowds, his knuckles white on the blade at his back. He stopped once he had a clear line of sight and considered.

A single wrong move could cost Bal's life, and the man clutching him like a shield seemed driven by grief, not calculation. Unpredictability was always dangerous. The man snarled at the crowd and brandished the knife at the front of Bal's throat, away from the vulnerable arteries. The furrows between Sam's eyes loosened.

He saw Dean, off to the side, poised on the balls of his feet, and met his eyes. They shared a quick nod.

Dean's scream split the air. The arm threatening Bal jumped toward the sound, propelled by instinct, and Sam's knife flew.

The man's blade thumped on the grass, his hand pinned to the wall. Fat drops of blood oozed to the ground, and Bal slipped away.

Shocked paralysis swept the crowd, all but Benny and Dean, who wrestled the man to the ground and shouted for someone to call the police. Sam crept in to pocket his knife and was caught when he turned by Bal's hooded blue eyes.

"Was that you?"

Sam couldn't breathe. Old words, familiar words, shot through his mind, _wrong _and _weak_, _disappointment _and _worthless _and _should have been you_, and he hunched his shoulders, head bowed, prepared for punishing blows.

Long fingers gripped his arms as he waited, trembling, trapped in his head, but the hands didn't move and the blows didn't come, and a few millennia-heartbeats later, a low whistle jolted him back. He looked up through his bangs, his breath short and sharp, and was met with a blinding smile.

"That was magnificent, kid."

* * *

><p>The Labor Day Festival in Richmond, Virginia was the first sideshow Sam ever worked. Bobby was hesitant.<p>

"You boys sure about this?" Bobby'd asked, frowning. "You've only been practicin' a couple weeks."

Sam had ducked his head, Dean had smirked, and Bal, with the familiar cigarette tucked in his teeth _none of the good stuff when Bobby's around, kid_, had tossed his head back and laughed.

It wasn't too hard to play down Sam's age - he looked all of twelve, anyway - and the Boy Wonder show was born.

Sam thought it was cheesy. Dean found it hilarious. Either way, it was an overwhelming success.

The crowd ate it up: the little street waif, plucked straight from Dickens, and Dean, the Artful Dodger. He started off slow, easy tosses, simple tricks, and worked his way up to the apple stunt Dad had taught him.

They fucking loved it, every time.

And it felt good, too, like the broadening of his shoulders, the straightening of his spine. Like flipping John a well-deserved bird.

He was one of them, now. He joined the grunt work, worked up the crowd, operated the games. He flipped his knives and drank the beer they slipped him at the end of the day, never mind he was only fourteen. No one looked at him like he was a wounded puppy anymore, not the carnies at least.

Sometimes he thought he felt the prickle of leering eyes, but no one was ever there when he looked. He brushed it off.

With the settling chill of October came increased space between jobs, and Sam was getting antsy. They hadn't talked about where they'd winter, how they'd make money. They hadn't talked about much at all, really, not their father, not their future, not what had happened to either of them while Dean was away. And definitely not Jo.

Sam had tried, once or twice, to convince Dean to call or send a letter, to give the girl some reason for his sudden absence. The first time Dean had ignored him; the second was one of the few occasions he remembered actually being frightened of Dean. So he'd dropped it.

But he knew how much it had cost, how much Dean had paid for Sam's freedom. And he knew that Dean would never leave him, not after...that...no matter how kind the carnies seemed.

So he didn't mention the eyes.

Turned out Bal spent the off-season months bunked with Benny in a Florida cabin, and he invited the Winchesters to join them. Gibsonton, the town was called, and nothing could have prepared Sam for it.

At first, he didn't notice much aside from Bal's bright eyes and sideways glances. Something was different, sure, but he'd never lived in the South, and he assumed that was it. There were more housing communities than he was used to, a few more bars than he'd been expecting, and he'd never seen anything like the drive-through beer depot Benny insisted they visit. There was a dog, a little too well-trained, dancing and yapping at its owner's heels. Two brightly painted women kissing in the park. The strange, extra-low counter at the post office when Bal stopped to check his mail.

It was the talking that finally got him.

They'd stopped for lunch at a honky-tonk diner where Bal ordered po'boys and soft-shell crab and wouldn't let anyone else pay. Sam was used to feeling nervous around so many outsiders, distrustful, but he didn't. The people here were familiar, hard-edged and sharp-tongued. They weren't the city folk he'd grown up with, the ones whose eyes stabbed and knives stabbed deeper. And they weren't the soft-spoken suburbanites who dripped cheer from empty faces. These people displayed their affection with half-hearted punches and raucous cursing, and suddenly he understood, and his gaze shot to his brother.

"Dean," he breathed, wide-eyed and giddy. "They're carnies. They're all carnies."

And they were.

Gibsonton, Florida - or "Gibtown," as the locals called it - had been a retreat for vacationing or retiring carnies for over fifty years. Its history was rich, as Sam learned over the next few months, full of freak acts and exotic animal shows, carny legends and a seven foot eleven fire chief.

Bal wouldn't say where he'd gotten the cabin, but it stood smack dab in the middle of the noise and color, and Sam loved it.

The winter months passed dreamlike, warmer than Sam had ever experienced. Dean found work at a local burger joint, and Sam, with the help of forged papers from Benny, enrolled back in school. Half the student body were there for the season, and friendship came easy and quick.

Dean hit it off with Benny. They spent the hours when Dean wasn't working sparring or sharing booze by the fire. They traded bits and pieces of stories, circling around each other as they worked up to real confession. It was the carny way, Sam guessed: never asking, never telling, not really. Just dropping enough hints that the other person got the picture.

Sam, ever contrary, found himself missing the familiar winter chill, felt stifled by the balmy warmth of the Gulf wind. So he took to cracking his window at night to invite in whatever breeze happened by and drifting to sleep with the smell of Dean's smoke and the sounds of him talking with Benny on the grass outside. Dean's voice had been his lullaby for as long as he could remember, and when Dean reminisced about old times - the curve of Jo's shoulder, say, or the summer they'd spent washing neighbors cars and pranking each other ruthlessly - the fondness Sam heard draped him like a quilt, like a blanket clutched by a child to ward off nightmares, and he slept then, soundless and deep.

Sometimes, though, Dean's voice would crack with the pain of loss, and Sam would lie there, wide-awake, as Dean's words and burning guilt rushed over him. Dean loved Jo, had for years, and now she was gone, Sam had taken her away, and all of Dean's love poured like water from a broken pipe, flooding out into empty space, pooling on the floor.

And Benny was the one who got to listen, to hold himself still and refrain from offering the comforting words Dean would hate to hear. When he finally spoke, he opened with a description of what sounded to Sam like a mob boss, called him "the old man," and Sam wasn't sure what the connection was. He spoke with reverence and hate, hinted at unsavory work and questionable companions, told of a beautiful woman whose love had pulled him out of the mire and set his feet on solid ground. Andrea, her name was, whispered from Benny's lips with bitterness and worship. When he recounted finding the old man in his bed, limbs tangled up in Andrea's, Sam felt tears prickling at his eyes. He was glad then that Dean had Benny, that his brother had someone to share life's weight, even if it couldn't be Sam.

A&C started up again mid-Spring with a shrimp festival north of Tampa. Sam was eager for the work, restless and loose-limbed from his weeks in a classroom. The Boy Wonder show was popular, as always, and Bobby started Dean on a stage-fighting gig that set him smiling more than he had in years.

The eyes were back, but Sam paid them no mind.

One night, after much pleading and more than a little cheap bourbon, Bal agreed to read Sam's fortune. They ached with laughter and passed the booze as Bal waxed poetic, gushing tall tales bathed in folly and extravagance. Sam waited until Bal was slumped in his chair, sleep-thick and intoxicated, before escaping through the curtains into the warm night.

Stars winked overhead, and the steady thrum of passing traffic painted the air like a lullaby. Sam paused, inhaling the rich scents of the Florida evening. They'd be leaving soon, and he'd been happy here, but the promise of next winter hovered brightly on the horizon, and he was content.

He felt that familiar chill down his spine and glanced around with scant attention. Lucien was there, leaned up against a telephone pole, but Sam didn't acknowledge him. He didn't much care for the older man. Lucien had never been rude exactly, but something about him twisted Sam's gut, and Sam had learned to heed his senses.

He was halfway to the trailer he shared with Benny and Dean when cold fingers snaked his arm. He whipped around, driven by instinct, and jerked himself free, his fists lashing blindly in the dark. Work-coarse hands encircled his wrists, pulled him closer, hot breath on his face, sweet with liquor and something else.

"You're a pretty one, aren't you, Sammy boy." Lucien's teeth flashed as he spoke.

Sam panicked.

"_Dean's gone, Sam. Can't run squealing to big brother anymore."_

"A little thing like you, all alone out here in the dark." Lucien smacked his lips and pressed them to Sam's neck. Bile rose threateningly in his throat.

"_Stand up and fight, son. Man's gotta be able to defend his family."_

"Standing there so sweet for me." A hand slid under his shirt, skimming the trembling gooseflesh on his chest.

"_Only thing your mama ever got wrong was trading her life for a worthless shit like you."_

A full-body shudder wracked him, cutting through the panic. This...this was different. He wasn't there, not anymore. He was here, with Dean, no longer weak or worthless. He could fight, and he knew he could win.

Sam twisted around in Lucien's arms and elbowed his stomach hard. Sam's knee to his groin, and Lucien bent over, and Sam flung himself on the man's back and wrapped his arms tight at his throat. Cracked fingernails clawed at Sam's arms, but there was nothing to be done, the air wouldn't come and Lucien slumped to the ground, lifeless.

Sam panted, shaking. Lucien looked pale in the moonlight, weak and harmless as a passed-out drunk. Another voice in his head, familiar but different, the voice that had guided him safely through childhood and led him out of hell.

_Bully picks you as a target, Sammy, only thing you can do is show 'im you're not scared. No backing down once he's marked you. Give 'im all you got, and he'll leave you alone._

He spared one minute more to stare at the man curled on the ground, and continued on his way home.


End file.
